


bottoms up

by watername



Category: SHINee
Genre: M/M, Selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:08:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21813448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watername/pseuds/watername
Summary: "I remember being you," he says, quiet and vulnerable in a way Minho only recognizes in his own thoughts. Some unspoken piece hangs between them, as Minho's breath catches. "I remember - wanting, so much - to be wanted. Bound and determined, to be something to someone. It's good. I can tell you that much, for what's to come. You're wanted - and loved."Fluttering, like wings on a breeze, his thumb and forefinger land on opposite sides of the widening line of Minho's ass. They press in, and spread him open.Choi Minho finger-fucks Choi Minho.
Relationships: Choi Minho/Choi Minho
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	bottoms up

**Author's Note:**

> there is no explanation for how this happens. it's the universe being horny and bending time and space.

"OK," the older version of himself says, his eyes set and intense on where Minho has awkwardly reclined out on the bed. "First things first."

He easily tosses the small item. Minho couldn't help but fumble it, still unsettled by there being two of himself in the small dorm room.

"Pull it over your finger - wait, let me see - " he reaches and grabs Minho's outstretched hand, tugging it towards himself so he's pulled up and almost into a kneeling position. His eyes glances over his fingernails, and Minho couldn't help but marvel. The same hands, one a little more tanned, a little broader, but the same. Their fingers lay against each other, an almost perfect mirror, before the older one nods decisively. "Index."

Minho watches, fascinated, as he carefully rolls the cot over his finger. The material feels oddly clinical, reminding him more of a doctor's visit than anything else, and he pushes down on the urge to comment on it. 

"I know, it doesn't seem sexy at all, does it? Trust me, it's worth it," the older one chides him. "You stop noticing it after a while. And the right person doesn't let it stop - them," he finishes with a half-smile.

"Do you have a right person?" Minho asks. The other man looks at him sideways, before smiling wider and shameless.

"A few. But I'm not going to spoil that."

He wants to whine, badly, but before he can the older man pops up off the bed and begins looking through Minho's things. Even though he knows it's theirs, technically, he feels a flame of embarrassment as he rifles through the small shoebox he's secreted away.

"Forgot where I used to keep this," he says, tossing the unopened bottle back and forth, plastic slapping from one palm to another. "OK. Spread your knees a little more. Yeah, like that."

Minho has been in this position before, tentative and wanting and determined to explore his own preferences on his own time. The reason he never wanted to do it for the first time with someone else - the feeling is coming to him, half-uncertain with a tug-of-war between shyness and confusion and self-reproach. He has nothing to hide from himself, but knowing the breadth of his own searching fingers, and when they could press _there -_ it's different, watching his own hands move, separate from his own thoughts.

His own hands are pressed against the front of his thighs, and his own hands are gently sliding down the small of his back, at a pace he has no say in.

He clears his throat and fidgets with the cot, nudging it up towards his nail bed. The other Minho seems to sense the raw, split ends of his nerves and stops. His hand's warmth lies just above the crease of his cheeks.

"I remember being you," he says, quiet and vulnerable in a way Minho only recognizes in his own thoughts. Some unspoken piece hangs between them, as Minho's breath catches. "I remember - _wanting,_ so much - to be wanted. Bound and determined, to be something to someone. It's good. I can tell you that much, for what's to come. You're wanted - and loved."

Fluttering, like wings on a breeze, his thumb and forefinger land on opposite sides of the widening line of Minho's ass. They press in, and spread him open. 

"There's time enough for others to love you," he continues, still gentle, still soft even as Minho bites his lip sharply. "Let's - love ourself today."

Minho takes in another breath and nods. He twists his right arm around, his elbow hooked around his hip, and feels the other man take hold of his wrist. A glow of satisfaction emanates from his older self, his other hand patting his ass quickly and affectionately. 

"OK, just, relax as much as you can." He feels the light touch against the rough, darker skin just surrounding his hole as he moves his own towards it. There's a rush of blood somewhere in his body, uncertain of where to go: his brain, trying to think through keeping his knees split open, keeping his elbow from locking as he leans forward onto his palm- or perhaps his cock, recognizing the delicate intimacy of a nail grazing - or his heart, struggling to keep him upright and functional. It's too much for one person, almost, but Minho has never been able to decline a challenge. 

He bites his lip again, more searching than sharp, and breathes out.

"There you go," he hears his own voice, and it suddenly sounds so much younger, so much more like _himself_ , the way he hears himself on programs and radio. When his own finger is slick and pressing against his own rim, it's a private moment alone in this room. 

" _Fuck_ ," he breathes out once more, and his older self chuckles, breaking the moment. He lazily grabs Minho's wandering finger and guides it in an arc, back and forth, back and forth. The tip erratically catches against his flesh, the pull of it lulling and near-hypnotic. 

"This is your chance to get used to this feeling, to know when it's too much, when it's not enough - "

"It's not enough," Minho interrupts, impatient. Wouldn't his own self know this?

By the sound of his laughter, he does, but he stubbornly refuses to speed up, instead staying at the same easy, unhurried rhythm that is doing more to frustrate Minho than pleasure him. 

"Man, no wonder he hated me," he hears at a near-whisper, and Minho's heart slams against his chest, and the question is on the tip of his tongue, the face forming, taunting, in his mind - "Shit. Just - ignore that, would you?"

"No way," Minho protests, and he nearly breaks free, but his other self has his unburdened hand on his shoulder, and his mouth pressed hotly beneath his ear, the rumble in his chest against Minho's slender back. His heart hammers, and its twin echoes back. 

"Look, you're _going to get there_. Whoever you're thinking of, I was thinking of him too, and _that's all we're going to fucking say about it_ ," he growls authoritatively, and Minho thinks this may be the most narcissistic thing he's ever done, but he can't help but squirm back against him, begging with his body for continued validation. "Now, are you going to cooperate? Or are you going to moan around for something you can just fucking wait a couple years for and still have?"

His grip has loosened enough that Minho can twist around, and spot the stern edges falling away, a cocky happiness at the corners of his own eyes, a bright pleasure in the curve of his mouth. 

"Still have?"

The older one nods, satisfied. 

"Still have. Now are you going to fuck yourself or am I going to have to do it for you?"

A quick, nervous smile skitters across Minho's face, and he shrugs. Heat blooms up in his chest when awareness lights his older self's face up. Some odd mix of pride and embarrassment sweeps over him as his eyes drop down and catch on the burgeoning hardness that's just catching up to his own, more adolescent excitement. 

"Don't you already know that?" he breathlessly asks as he's turned back around, and carefully bent forward. Warm hands wrap around his ankles and pull him back until he can feel air against his still wettened rim. 

His older self ignores the question, probably some kind of a paradox, and instead refamiliarizes. His fingers find their places from before, expertly draw his flesh apart to expose his wanting and waiting hole. Minho takes a deep breath, feverishly thinking of his own hard cock, and what it would feel like to have it not in the grip of his hand, but rather stretching out the tight quarters of his ass. 

When he feels the same trim nail as before, now beneath a thin cover of rubber, he squawks in displeasure. 

"You're not ready," he hears the admonishment, and feels the precise rebuke a moment later when his older self presses deeper in. It makes him flinch, and reflexively tighten. 

"Fuck, fine, just - " he swallows and tries to relax again. "How you were doing it before, just - a little more, Jesus."

He can _hear_ the smirk, but he doesn't even bother objecting when the other man accedes to the request, pressing his finger in, once more firmly, but with Minho prepared it doesn't feel so bad. He feels his shoulders drop, as the unoccupied hand grabs the outer flesh of his thigh and massages it without comment. 

When the next push comes in, he bends it at the knuckle, pressing and dragging as he withdraws, and Minho lets his breath draw ragged in the silence that follows.

"More," he demands. 

"Don't tense up," is the answer he gets, and he groans in satisfaction, letting himself fall forward, as he follows through with the unspoken intention. Overly long hairs stuck to his forehead brush against his eyes, as they lay trapped between him and the mattress, but it doesn't bother him. The warm wetness of his breath settles in the tight, narrow space between the bridge of his nose and the soft comfort of his sheets. 

He hazily wonders how many times someone will fuck him on this bed, have their hand on his hip so assuredly, so possessively. He wonders if this is an aberration, a one-off twist, or if he in his future feels so confident to switch between giving and receiving. 

A slight laugh shimmies up his throat and onto his lips, muffled against the fabric: the narcissism of only being a top for himself. 

Sharp hold against his hip, ratcheted up from the firm grip before - "You have got to stop giggling."

"I'm not," he protests, but the pointlessness of trying to lie to himself results in a derisive scoff. It doesn't even deserve further comment, just the meaningful pressure of a knowing finger pressing further inside him. Minho groans, content to be called out if it means having more. He pushes himself backwards, to take himself in deeper, and his older self shies away for just a moment. It's not quick, enough, and Minho's blind pursuit finds what he was looking for. His finger brushes carelessly across his prostate, without warning. 

"Holy fuck."

"Holy fuck," his other self agrees, so close and quiet it feels like an echo. His finger bends and reaches out once more, grazing with deliberate slowness at first, before giving into the burgeoning protest he knows Minho is about to make. 

Various obscenities roll around his head like loose marbles in a bowl, but nothing so elegant comes out of Minho's mouth. Instead, he finds a loose bit of sheet and clamps it between his lips. His pleas are barely voiced, instead given physicality in the tensing of his arms, the white knuckles of his fingers half-hidden in the sheets. Sweat settles along the fine lines of his shoulders and he can feel an electric pulse beading frantically across every nerve. 

His older self knows the desperation that seems to control Minho's every motion at this point, anticipating before it happens every twitch that threatens to interrupt the crescendoing sensations, and refusing to let him back away from it. 

In the abbreviated triangle formed by his thighs and abdomen and the sheet, his cock juts out in interruption, demanding attention. His older self obliges. A knowing and experienced hand wraps around him. A finger beckons inside him, and he sputters as he comes, unable to hold the pieces of himself together any longer.

Courteously, the older Minho withdraws and lets the younger one collapse onto the bed fully. His hips land slightly askew; his inexperienced cock, spent and leaking, spared more stimulation as it peeks out to the side. 

Minho groans incoherently into the pillow. Saliva gathers at the corner of his bitten and abused lips, before he cracks open his eyes and lazily searches for the older one's presence.

"Still here," he assures, amusement obvious in his voice. 

He makes a half-question with his hands, awkwardly angled from the prone position, but the half-curl of fingers is immediately recognizable to both of them.

"No thanks," he says. The warmth is evident in his voice, before he continues, taking a teasing tone. "Another time."

His eyes start wide open, and Minho wrestles himself back up - "wait, what, another - _fuck you!_ "

The room is empty besides him, the only signs of the other man the spent cot lying innocuously on the bed, and the heated impression of experienced fingers on his skin.


End file.
